Time Will Tell (13 page)

There was little more that she could do now. Trying to second-guess the questions her paper might provoke was futile, so she closed her folder.

‘A drink from the bar, madam?'

She asked for an orange juice and next to her Ollie struggled awake and ordered a coffee.

‘Did you get your stuff done?' he asked.

‘Just about. Not much more I can do really. Did you sleep?'

‘A little. There's always the bus.'

Ollie and Emma had become a couple on the very same day that, had things taken the slightest of turns, they might have separated forever. Every time Emma looked back, she did so with the unsettling sensation that remembering might of itself reverse the outcome and send her spinning back to a vertiginous moment which had threatened the very existence of the group. Allie had subsequently apologised for his behaviour, but Ollie and Emma never discussed the matter. In turn, none of the group mentioned it either, and it became the only narrative which, by its very seriousness, was too delicate to take a place in the group's repertoire of shared reminiscence. Last year, on their second anniversary, Emma had felt the time had come to address history, but Ollie had urged her not to ‘go there'. He was, he said, not prepared to risk an argument, though he didn't mind arguing about not arguing. Tempted as she was to make some comment about history repeating itself, Emma had surrendered to the more intimate purpose of the evening.

The roots of the crisis lay in the seemingly innocent issue of pronunciation. Emma felt that it was inconsistent to sing a French chanson with a French accent and then perform a Latin-texted motet by the same composer in an English accent, a view that she repeated in programme notes and interviews. Regional and historic variances were part of the same argument and, as a consequence, authentic pronunciation had become a further defining characteristic of Beyond Compère. To aid the singers, experts in the history of language provided phonetic transcriptions. Ironically though, modern scholars sometimes proved as unreliable as medieval scribes, which meant that questions about intention and execution arose regularly, disagreement staged between those who had some specialised knowledge and those who regarded the process as an annoying diversion to the real task of singing. In the arena of foreign languages it was Susan and Marco who had some claim to be consulted ahead of the others, and Allie and Ollie who were usually the object of any critique.

Things came to a head slowly. The group had been rehearsing for a concert the following week in Spain. That meant a day of rehearsals in a church in London, with the following day set aside for private study to memorise the music. Most of the repertoire was familiar and Emma had added a few new pieces, not simply because the resultant programme answered the specific brief of the Festival (‘Spain and France'), but also because it kept everyone on their toes and expanded their repertoire. Motets and chansons by De La Rue and Agricola would interleave others by Peñalosa and Escobar to demonstrate the many links that existed between the two countries around 1500.

Emma asked Susan to demonstrate the basic vowel and consonantal sounds of Spanish, and Allie and Ollie scribbled in their copies, parodying the examples out loud to make the other laugh. Emma ignored their sniggering and, after they'd sung through one piece, asked Susan to comment on what she'd heard.

‘The consonants were pretty good,' she said. ‘People are stumbling on the “V”, though. It should be a soft “B”.'

‘As in “Bagina”,' observed Allie. Childish as it was, it made everyone laugh – even Susan who blushed through her make-up. Ollie, to signal his disdain for the whole exercise, laughed more than anyone else. Emma had learned that it was best to allow the basses to let off steam about such issues rather than chide them and, whatever Allie's intentions, it lightened the tension and the group worked contentedly till the mid-morning break.

Shortly after the rehearsal resumed, Emma felt that they were all slipping back into English pronunciation and asked Susan and Marco for their opinion. Marco, who preferred Italian vowels even when singing in English, didn't seem too concerned, but Susan went straight for it. ‘It's the aah sound. That's typically English and it doesn't exist in Spanish. You should be singing ah, like in “hat”, not aah as in “heart”.'

She looked across at Ollie and Allie, as if they were the only culprits, and added, ‘It's Allie, not Arlie.'

Emma tried to say something – anything – to break the sharp silence and prevent the response which she feared was coming, but Allie was too quick. ‘So I should call you an ass and not an arse then?' he asked with mock innocence. If Susan had blinked, a tear would have rolled from her eye. Emma intervened quickly, announcing that they'd sing the final section one more time before the lunch-break.

Things settled down in the afternoon. Allie had apologised to Susan at lunchtime and everyone's false cheer promised a less eventful session. The basses worked harder on their vowels and Allie even asked Susan how to pronounce the words of a villancico they were learning.

‘Billancico,' corrected Susan with an embarrassed smile.

The problem came when they rehearsed a piece they had already sung many times in previous concerts. Because the concert was recreating a performance at the Spanish court, the singers had to ignore the familiar sounds of French that they'd already learned and instead apply Spanish pronunciation. For Allie and Ollie this was going a step too far, putting the cart before the horse in privileging pedantry over performance. They blustered and argued, but Emma stood firm: it wouldn't be as difficult as they thought. They bridled at her attempt at reassurance; she could tell that they thought they were being patronised and, if they were going to be treated as children, they would act like them too. They sang the next run-through of the piece in a cheap imitation of a Mexican
bandito
, a bright nasal sound with trilled ‘r's', and succeeded in making each other laugh so much that they didn't notice how uncomfortable everyone else was.

When the piece came to an end, Emma spoke first, pre-empting any discussion.

‘Right. Well, that was a waste of everyone's time. We'll now start from the top and I'll have to ask the basses whether this time they're going to take it seriously or not. If not, you can leave now; it's your choice.'

She hadn't meant to make the threat so clear, but when she turned to look at them both were staring at her, a challenge enough in itself, made worse by their satisfied smirking. She would meet their immature challenge. Whatever the validity of their arguments – and she could see precious little – over the years she had always treated them with respect and now they were showing her none. If they walked out she really didn't know what she would do. That, though, lay in the future and for now she awaited an answer.

Neither Allie nor Ollie had expected a showdown. To them it was a game, one that they could stop at any time. As they saw it, Emma had overreacted, leaving them no way out. A private apology, such as Allie had made to Susan, was one thing: to do so publicly was humiliation.

It was Ollie who responded first. He reached slowly into the back pocket of his jeans and drew something out. He placed an object on the back of his thumb and then flicked his thumb upwards. Nine pairs of eyes followed a coin as it spun upwards in an arc, hung in the air and then tumbled over itself, landing in his outstretched palm. He slapped it onto the back of his other hand and showed it to Allie, who nodded at Ollie.

‘Yes. We'll sing it again,' said Ollie, and they picked up their copies and readied themselves.

The rest of the rehearsal was awkwardly tense. No one risked trying to lighten the mood with a quip, no one smiled. Emma felt suddenly weary and sad, weighed down by the responsibilities of musical and social leadership. The looks between the singers, the basis of the group's immaculate ensemble, were absent, heads awkwardly buried in copies. She knew that the others weren't angry with her; indeed, she believed she had spoken for them all, and was confident that she had made her stand on the unchallengeable grounds of professionalism. From the basses there was no visual communication at all, the leads she gave to them seemingly ignored, though she knew they were following her beat.

She made her move as soon as the rehearsal was over.

‘I'd like to talk to both of you,' she said to Allie and Ollie before they had a chance to speak. ‘Now, if you're free. Can we meet in the Star and Garter?' They nodded and she told them she'd join them in the pub soon. She wanted to give them time to talk to each other, to work out how – or if – they would climb down.

The rest of the group realised what was happening and passed no comment as they gathered their things together, instead talking about the next trip, and organising the sharing of lifts to the airport. Eventually Emma was left on her own and she sat down to give herself a moment to think. She liked both Allie and Ollie, valued their talents, their uncanny partnership; she didn't want to lose either of them. Ollie had been there right from the start and, although occasionally immature, he had proved a loyal and protective colleague. She realised that she felt particularly close to him; they were friends, she the woman in whom he would occasionally confide, he a vulnerable, sensitive man compromised by a sense of grievance that even he didn't fully understand. Like Ollie, Allie could be touchy and she didn't underestimate their fierce pride; she knew that self-justification might well already have cast her confrontation as an act of betrayal. The very real possibility existed that both might resign from the group and next week's concert for which they were rehearsing would have to be cancelled. Yet it was also obvious that she couldn't allow them to run the show, and that she would have to obtain from them assurances as to their attitude towards her and her authority.

She walked into the dimly lit pub and saw the two of them sitting at the back, halfway through their first pint. She delayed the showdown a moment longer by offering them a drink and insisting that she bought her own; she had no desire to be left at the table making small-talk with one of them while the other was up at the bar. As she sat down on the high-backed bench, they pulled their bar stools closer to the table; she sensed that they wanted her to talk first but, with no sign of an imminent apology, she launched into her speech: their actions were childish and disruptive at best, unprofessional at worst; they sought to undermine not only her, but the identity and ideology of the group, the very things which had made it a success; on a personal level, they had also upset their colleagues; it was not up to them to determine how rehearsals were run. This meant the decision they had to make was simple: they could either surrender themselves to the requirements of working as part of the group, or leave.

Only then did she let them know how important they were to her and the group. Having slapped their wrists, she could then speak from the heart, tell them how much she valued their abilities and their input, their company and their musical instincts, their camaraderie and concern for others – all the things, in fact, that had been missing that day.

Ollie and Allie sat in neutral silence throughout, occasionally sipping on their beer, looking her in the eye or contemplatively over her shoulder with no sign of shame or any indication of what they were thinking. When she'd finished, she sat back to let them speak. Neither said anything. Allie turned to Ollie, and Ollie met his colleague's gaze. Some exchange occurred, perhaps a faint smile or a flicker of the eyes, Emma couldn't be sure, and then Allie reached into his back pocket. He withdrew a coin, placed it carefully on his bent thumb, and tossed it into the air. Catching it in his palm, he held it out to Ollie who, with exaggerated slowness, appropriately matched by the low-pitch of his speaking voice, said ‘Okay.'

Emma had no time to consider the consequences of her response, and only later would she realise just how beautifully poised the moment was. All she experienced at first was a lurch in her stomach as her challenge was met; the coin toss was either an instance of confrontational immaturity or an ironic commentary on earlier events: only her reaction would determine which. Perhaps it was the hint of a smile on Allie's face, or the gentle way Ollie had spoken and the slight suggestion of childlike remorse. Perhaps it was the studied seriousness with which Ollie placed the coin in front of her, a breviloquent memento of the day's events, or maybe just half a glass of chardonnay and a release of tension. Whatever it was, Emma understood that Allie and Ollie were admitting that she deserved an apology. By the time she could speak again, her stomach hurt from laughing and the tears were drying on her face. Recovering her poise for a moment, she was set off again by the sight of Allie silently wheezing, his face locked in an expression of pain, and Ollie lying on the floor where he had fallen from his stool.

From that day on, the basses turned from sceptical followers to committed disciples, defending Emma's vision of concert-as-theatre against singers like themselves who would have preferred the easier option of merely reproducing of the notes on the page. Allie, in particular, championed her cause, on one occasion savagely taking to task an arrogant young tenor who had railed against the difficulties of memorising music and movement, even questioning Emma's credentials as a conductor. Ollie, too, demonstrated his commitment to Emma, though more overtly: he and she had become lovers.

In the pub, once they'd recovered from their fits of laughter, Emma bought a round of drinks and the three of them stood and clinked glasses. The next round they did the same, and then Allie, on Emma's instructions, ordered food for them. It was a pub curry with raisins and coconut scattered on the top like a school-dinner garnish, and Emma ate hardly any. The rest of the evening was a blur, but she had apparently berated the barman for not having any jellied eels. She wasn't even sure what a jellied eel was.